


a principality of one (or forty-one)

by sevdrag (seventhe)



Series: the Snamily Chronicles (40 snakes-verse) [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, snakeverse, snamily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 05:50:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20616023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: Aziraphale can’t remember the specific day Crowley weaseled his way in, became a part of the world Aziraphale claimed as his, under his Principality, but he does remember how realizing it made him sit down, suddenly, collapsing onto his couch with cocoa in hand and staring at nothing for a good few hours.[Snamily fic]





	a principality of one (or forty-one)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aw_writing_no](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aw_writing_no/gifts).

> those who haven't read the original snamily fic only need to know that Aziraphale and Anthony Janthony Crowley sort of accidentally had forty snake children. you know. as you do.

Aziraphale knows he doesn’t come across as the most convincing of Principalities; he jokes, sometimes, that he forgets his own heavenly role, but it’s the kind of joke he makes to see Crowley smile: he never forgets. The instinct to guide, to protect, to nurture — that’s built into his nature, a part of every breath he takes in this corporeal form, knit into these bones that have been his for millenia. He was given a world to care for and bless, nations to guide, and his personal mantra has always been to lovingly tend to everything on this planet. This is as instilled in Aziraphale as his own angelic Name.

Aziraphale never forgets this, but he thinks sometimes Crowley does: not out of malice, or condescension, or even thinking that Aziraphale isn’t that great of an angel after all — Crowley forgets sometimes because it isn’t important to Crowley; it never has been. And Crowley sometimes underestimates what it means to be one of the beings on this earth Aziraphale would lovingly tend to, above so many other things, because Crowley’s never thought himself something worth caring for. He’s always been too afraid to ask, right up until the very end when he begged, and even now with the dust settled Crowley’s still reluctant to request anything from Aziraphale, as if he’s still afraid Aziraphale will say no. 

Principalities tend, and they mend, and they care, for everything within their sphere. Aziraphale cannot help but do so for the things he loves the most.

———

It’s another one of Crowley’s bad days. Aziraphale’s watched him have a number of these, scattered throughout the time after the End Times, unpredictable and following no pattern Aziraphale can discern. Crowley’s always been moody, and while he seems distinctly happier overall since they sorted all of their business out, he still sinks into these — these fugue states in minor key, these dark days without rain, where he’s still questioning why he fell and whether they’re safe and why bother with all of the Apocalypse anyway and it’s just: questions make Crowley melancholy these days, although he still can’t stop asking them.

Before, Crowley tried to stay away from Aziraphale; he’d sleep for days, or - later, when they’d linked their living spaces and moved their things together - he’d go off for a sulk, claiming he needed to do some sinning for a bit. Today, he’s still in bed, curled up in an absolutely gratuitous pillow nest, and he keeps telling Aziraphale that he’s alright, _go away, angel, you don’t have to stay here, go run your shop. I’m just tired. I’ll sleep it off._

And normally Aziraphale would. But this one seems particularly bad, and Aziraphale can’t help but think that so many of Crowley’s bad moments have been _his fault_. His continuous denial, his continued rejection, all of the cruel moments he firmly drew a line between angel and demon, all the times he chose Heaven’s brutal authority over the only being that could understand him — all the times Crowley loved him, desperately, and Aziraphale pretended he didn’t know and it didn’t exist. Crowley’s probably been having these bad days forever, and Aziraphale has a lot of catching up to do. 

So first, he heads into the terrarium, and starts to gather the children. Aziraphale can’t really speak to them the way Crowley can, but he can make himself known to them with a gentle angelic miracle, so he pushes his meaning forward into their tiny snake minds, and they start to move. Ozwald approaches first, winding his way up Aziraphale’s leg, and Aziraphale remains still as Esme, Cyra, Melchior, and Holden all climb as well, wrapping around his arms (Holden enjoys nesting in Aziraphale’s curls). A few other snakes are already making their way across the smooth floor. Aziraphale knows they’ll go find Crowley, go curl around him for comfort, so he takes his own company and goes to make tea.

———

Aziraphale can’t remember the specific day Crowley weaseled his way in, became a part of the world Aziraphale claimed as his, under his Principality, but he does remember how realizing it made him sit down, suddenly, collapsing onto his couch with cocoa in hand and staring at nothing for a good few hours.

Now, Aziraphale looks back and only sees the love: he sees so much time wasted, so much denial, and all the ways he hurt Crowley not even meaning to.

Principalities protect, and nurture, and bless, and worship. Aziraphale takes his duties very seriously, when he needs to.

———

By the time the tea is done and Aziraphale’s bringing it into the room, Crowley’s at least rolled over to face the door, and half covered in snakes. They’re curled on the pillows, twined in the blankets, and lovely Mahala - Crowley’s secret favorite - is draped over his hip; Xerxes and Hermione are weaving through his hair. (The snakes love that he’s growing it out, as does Aziraphale, who has wanted to put his hands in Crowley’s hair and tug for nearly six thousand years.) 

Aziraphale now puts the cups of tea on his bedside table, and settles on the bed. Holden and Ozwald remain in place, but the other snakes Aziraphale’s carrying must be able to sense what they’re here for as they taste at the air, because they too slide over to Crowley. Esme (another secret favorite, for all he calls her _Harlot_) slides her way over Crowley’s shoulder. He must be able to feel the bed moving under Aziraphale’s weight; Crowley opens his eyes, slowly, and looks up.

“What are you doing, angel?” It’s more a murmur than a question; Crowley’s pretending to be half-asleep, which Aziraphale knows to mean he’s entirely caught up in his own messy thoughts.

“There’s no reason for you to be in here alone,” Aziraphale says, repositioning himself so that he can lay his head down on the pillow next to Crowley and look him in the eyes. 

“Told you,” Crowley slurs. “I’m alright. Just tired.”

Aziraphale wisely does not point out that Crowley is very obviously not alright. Instead, he reaches out to brush his fingers across Crowley’s cheek, tracing his lovely cheekbones, tucking a curl of hair behind his ear. “It’s alright,” he tells Crowley, trying to put all of the love and affection of a Principality behind it. 

Something must work, because Crowley mutters “well, if you’re here,” and moves closer; Aziraphale lets Crowley snuggle his face into his shoulder, and wraps both arms around him, gently moving Marius up Crowley’s back. Crowley tangles his legs in with Aziraphale’s, just the way he likes it, takes a deep breath, and lets it out in one long, heavy, baroque sigh as he sinks into the comfort like it’s warm water.

Aziraphale feels the snakes tucking themselves in - Crowley might be sending signals; he isn’t sure - around their bodies, and Aziraphale has a moment of absolute joy to be here, curled like parenthesis in this bed, with their uncanny but utterly loved snake children tucked in around them like punctuation in a treatise. Aziraphale can feel it down to his bones, that this is how it is meant to be.

“Just,” Crowley mumbles into his chest. “Jus’ a bad day, angel.”

Aziraphale runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair, soothing. “I know, love. We’re here.”

Crowley whispers something like _fucking kids_ but just tugs himself in closer, and Aziraphale rests his chin on top of Crowley’s head and closes his own eyes. “We’ve got you,” he murmurs, and the snakes come in closer to drape themselves across their arms and thighs and the blankets.

———

There are times he is the Principality of Earth, the Warden of humanity, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate; and there are times Aziraphale dwells solely in Crowley. He is his demon’s devoted Principality, entirely his Guardian, and the Warden of that wild, desperate trust Crowley has placed in him from the very beginning. 

There are times his sphere has a population of one. The Principality Aziraphale considers this the most important of his responsibilities.

**Author's Note:**

> this is SO LATE my love, but i hope it cheers you up anyway, and you can save it for a future bad day (although i wish you NONE of those anymore)


End file.
